Stroke of the Brush
by WaterLily95
Summary: I watch her take the brush cautiously and dip it into a bottle of ink as black as the night…and as black as my heart.


**Stroke of the Brush**

The pear juice trickles down my neck as I watch her. It's the last day of my junior year at high school and I really have other things important to do than stare at her… okay, no I don't. I admit it. I don't get how my eyes never get tired of watching her all these years… just for this ignorant artist. My feet wrap themselves over the table as I lean back in my chair, squeezing the pear every now and then out of frustration. Taking a bite and blinking and squeezing the fruit and watching each stroke of the brush that she decides to make... this is my routine for today. Some routine, huh? Boring and pointless and…hypnotic.

She brushes back her hair like a wave of fingers gliding through a sea of silky blackness. Her dark eyes focus on the paper sitting in front of her, a mere object waiting to be graced by her so called skills. As I try to get a glimpse of her from the side, the wind interrupts and makes her hair fall over in front, blocking my view. Her thumb and index fingers gently decide to grab the brush after a few more moments of thought (like drawing would ever need thinking). I watch her take the brush cautiously and dip it into a bottle of ink as black as the night…and as black as my heart.

You see what has happened to me? The mighty ruler of monthly school fights, topper of the class by getting awkward nerds to do my homework, escaper of worldly nonsense… and here I am, composing poetry for this one loser girl.

Nah, I take it back. She's not much of a loser. I wouldn't know about individuality and such, for I've always seen people as losers. But this little lady…she's different. Which is why I…what's the word… _despise _her. Since the day I entered this school, I've despised her for not responding to me.

What's the word I'm looking for? Over achiever…perfectionist… _Muse_. That's what. She was the _Muse _of _Musashi High _who decided to make a mess of a poet out of me. That's probably why she wouldn't turn her head this way. She doesn't see me, for if she did she would have surely known that Nao, the most popular bully in school, was changing into somebody he never imagined to be and was staring at her as if she was the only human on the entire planet. And surely she would've hit the floor facedown with fear. Oh, who am I kidding? She was too good of a sorceress to fear anybody like me.

The Muses were goddesses of the arts and science according to Greek mythology. The Western Studies teachers would go on and on about how each muse would have her own specialty, like the muse of sacred poetry, the muse of comedy, and so on. But this muse, in particular, was certainly different. She had the ability to create anything with her magical hands. Wait, did I just _compliment _this girl? I try not to slap my forehead. Fudge.

She was one of those muses that each art teacher would sacrifice everything for. She detached herself from this universe and got lost in the "abstract world" the National Art Club calls "imagination." And the club members praise her for everything- her "humility," "modesty," "talent of calligraphy." A "prodigy in the proficiency of the arts" they describe her as. Such big words for a geeky artist. And what's so special about those paintings anyway? Calligraphy, Hiroshi Senju, _The Great Wave Off Kanagawa_, Wang Yani… _this _is her world. Her pathetic, artsy world where everything is an illusion and nothing is reality.

She doesn't say a word; believe me, I've noticed. She's one of those shy girls who says (or appears to be saying) thank you all the time for anything that is a compliment and anything that isn't; She seems too sensitive to knock you over and too much of a wimp to say one mean thing about somebody else. Sometimes I wonder if she could even speak. But I know she does 'cause she tutors those less fortunate in their studies.

She's one of those nerds that roam throughout Study Hall, but it's not like she belongs there anyway 'cause she doesn't show off like those nerds do. She's not assertive at all- muter than air can ever be. She doesn't smile, doesn't laugh, doesn't cry or even get mad when useless douches happen to ruin her paintings at times. She's emotionless. The perfect, ideal high school junior.

In all my years of forcing people to communicate with me (even if it's in a negative way), I've never seen someone who hardly knows me, much less not even take some time in her social life to even attempt to know me. She doesn't slide past me at lunch, and she's never in any of the classes I take with her; she is the central subject of honor rolls and tutoring, so there's only one option for me to stalk her… art class.

What people know is that she's demure. But what people _don't _know is that she's a killer. She's killing me softly by not looking at me. Normally I could care less. Girls were never a part of my life. But this girl…she's a cobra that has slithered her way into my dreams and poisoned me with her fangs of skill. Do I care about attention? No. Do I care about being noticed? No. Do I care about being far more superior in front of a "loser-but-not-so-much-of-a-loser" girl who never talks? _Yes_.

"Yo…he's still staring at her." A random kid whispers.

Of course I would. It's a free country. I have every right to.

Every time I hear people utter something in my name, I would go back to my fierce self and get them to pay their price. This time my entire class is murmuring about my dwindled powers. Where did all the anger go? That's why I always say… this muse is a sweet type of poison. An angelic devil who has left me powerless.

"At who?" another dude asks.

"The quiet art girl. You know her name?"

"No. But of all people, why her? She's a humble student. She rarely speaks to anybody, and she doesn't even _think _about looking at him."

"Maybe he has something planned."

Revenge? They've got to be kidding me. They think I'll crush every person I see. Who would ever have the ability to bully someone as silently powerful as this muse? She's too naïve, too soft spoken, too _weak_… Oh, what am I thinking? She has me all tied up mentally, so I can't budge.

"He could make her work on his semester project so he can turn it in before the bell rings."

That's an option.

"Doesn't he, you know, have a life? Is he just going to sit there and stare at her until the bell rings for summer break?"

"I wouldn't be surprised if he stalked her by going to her house."

I might as well actually do that one day. I shrug, amused by the idea.

"Or he could force her to run six miles around Musashi High until she collapses." A sophomore chimed in.

"Even send her running away from this school so she won't come back next year."

These people. I shake my head and sigh.

"Even force her to say she likes him in front of everybody."

Where in the world did the imbecile get _that _idea?

"Why would he do that? Does he like her?"

_What_? No I don't! How dare he say that?! Should I be after him now?

"How should I know? A bully's a bully."

These insignificant souls that gripe all the time. I stare harder at the muse. She's disappearing into the artist trap. She doesn't even care that the entire class is talking about me and her. She doesn't say anything. But not today because today is the last time I'll see her again until three more months… I am _not _going to just sit there and let her act like herself ever again. I am going to make her talk to me. I will destroy that arrogance she holds.

I shoot up from my chair. I've squeezed my pear hard enough, so I aim it for the trash can and hear the pear crash onto the bottom. The class stands up and the art teacher looks up at me, but I don't care.

"Nao, will you have a seat please?" the art teacher says. "Only a few more hours and you'll be free-"

I ignore him and stare and stare until my eyes burn. She doesn't look at me still. Can't the slowpoke turn her head at least _once_?!

Why does she hate me so? _Does _she hate me? If not, why doesn't she look here? _Here! This_ side of the corner is available, where for the first time in history a bully is on the edge of his seat… I haven't even spared her my yearly mean welcomes and still I'm tossed aside like an old shoe. I grit my teeth. My eyes flare. I was losing patience.

"Look, dudes, he's getting mad."

"He just wants attention, that's all."

"Can't he hold it for, like, three more hours?"

"He'll kill us if he hears us."

"We better steer clear. Let's go."

That was it. I've had enough. I take my feet off of the table and knock it over, watching with flaming eyes as the table crashes to the ground.

"_SHUT UP!_" I roar to the class. Everybody stops fidgeting. The art teacher, whatever his name is, glares at me with a flustered face.

"I've heard enough!" I yell again.

I glare at the class and watch the art girl just sit there. She's not painting anymore, but she's still not concerned with anything. It's like she's just listening. I see the ink from the brush dip rapidly onto the floor.

"Nao!" the teacher booms in his stern voice. "I've had enough of you lately. Do we need to call the headmaster in here again? On the last day of school? Mind your words and take your seat!"

The students whisper things about me and look at me, but the girl is just there. She doesn't even want to know what's going on. I clench my fists.

"I won't!" I yell. "I'd rather get sent to reform school than sit here and watch her all day long!"

I point to the art girl in the corner and see her flinch. I wanted to tap myself of my accomplishment. I was finally taking a step to tame the sorceress. The teacher was trying to calm himself, knowing I got usually restless every now and then.

"It would be best if you took your seat now." He commanded me. "It will not be pleasant if-"

"This imbecile thinks she can just ignore me and feel proud about it!" I bellow.

I can feel her shaking. She quickly pulls her hair back with her shaky fingers.

"She's so into all this…this…_calligraphy_! Who cares about that these days?! She's inhumane! She's blind and deaf and dumb at the same time! She's a heartless zombie that could care less! She doesn't even know I _exist_!"

"NAO! THAT'S ENOUGH!"

"NO!" I scream. I can feel my lungs bursting with anger. My throat was on fire. I couldn't take it anymore. I run up to the paper on her desk and grab it. I glare at her, still frustrated on how the stupid wind still blocks her face with her hair.

"You think it's funny to destroy my ego and pride? I'll see how you like it if I destroy _yours_! Your precious little blob of a project!"

But as I turn to tear the work into pieces, I stop. My frown is destroyed as splashes of orderly color crushes my hands' ability to annihilate. My chest starts feeling like there's somebody banging gongs inside of it. And I stare… not at the back of the girl's head this time but at her painting.

The smooth lines of ink managed to stay in one place despite the wrath of my angry hand. The black ink trails gently to connect with the other lines on the page, curving just at the right angles to form either another line or end the previous one. Green and pink and red blend together with white, dabbed neatly to create the sense of cherry blossoms on the page. I see a hill where a Shinto gateway stands completely still. The sun was setting on one side of the world I was looking at, the darkness displayed through shades of blue and purple along with sunset pink and bright orange. It actually looked like a real place… like a photograph stuck on a large poster.

For the first time my hands shake. I didn't even have the chance to say goodbye to my breath as it escaped from my mouth. I was caught off guard.

"Nao?"

Something inside of me exploded. I turned around and looked at the owner of the voice. It was her. She was looking at me. _Patiently_. She actually_spoke _to me. She even said my name. This was probably the first time she ever said my name in her entire lifetime. Her eyes pierce me softly with that patient look, telling me instantly that she wasn't only waiting to get her painting back but also waiting for what he had to say. But the weird thing was that she wasn't mad. Or scared. Or sad or disappointed or regretful.

This time, I don't say a word. _I'm _the mute one. I look from her to her painting and back to her again. I let my grip on the paper loosen in fear of ruining the quality of the painting.

It was like I was actually looking at her inside of this painting. I could imagine it all. The sunset would be shining its light upon her licorice toned hair and uplifting the glimmer in her eyes. The stupid wind wouldn't be as stupid anymore… it would turn into a cool breeze that made sure my eyes never got tempted to blink and lose focus on her. It was like seeing things in a different light.

"GIVE MANAMI HER ARTWORK BACK!"

I jump from the sudden scream. Even the roar of the head master a few seconds later didn't sound as harsh. I obeyed at last, her hands brushing accidentally onto mine when I gave her the artwork back.

"It…It's really n-nice, M-Manami…" I murmur.

She tilts her head and blinks, as if she didn't hear me right.

"Don't just stand there and glare at me. I gave you a compliment." I say, trying not to look like a lovestruck dummy. "I said the painting is nice."

"Oh." She says, looking down. "Thank you."

And this time when she said thank you, she was saying it to me. So it sounded exotic and fluttery. Simple and meaningful. Like the stroke of a calligraphy brush.

The sorceress has defeated me with her humble weapon.

"Apologize!" the art teacher yelled. "Apologize to her!"

The headmaster looked at him expectantly. "Well? Go on."

"I'm sorry." I say so easily. I was surprised with myself. Never have I apologized in my entire life to someone in school, not even a teacher. The students all gasp simultaneously, annoying me further.

"You need a good long stay after school. It's a shame, doing this on the last day." The head master said sternly.

He grabs my hand and drags me behind him while murmuring something about calling my parents, but for some odd reason my eyes have started to betray me. They trail upon Manami's surprised expression and her painting as the art teacher placed his hand protectively over her shoulder. The more I looked, the less angry I got. It was like everything was in transition: new summer, new painting, new goodbyes... and the first of surprises from an over achieving inamorata.

And what happened next was clearly a miracle sent straight from Heaven, like a peasant winning a million dollar lottery.

_Manami smiled at me._


End file.
